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A man without hands came to the door to sell me a photograph of my house. Except for the chrome hooks, he was an ordinary-looking man of fifty or so.
Raymond Carver
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Raymond Carver
Age: 50 †
Born: 1938
Born: May 25
Died: 1988
Died: August 2
Author
Novelist
Poet
Prosaist
Screenwriter
Writer
Clatskanie
Oregon
Except
Chrome
Men
Ordinary
Hooks
Doors
Hook
Came
Fifty
Looking
Sell
House
Sells
Photograph
Hands
Door
Without
More quotes by Raymond Carver
There was this funny thing of anything could happen now that we realized everything had.
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Woke up this morning with a terrific urge to lie in bed all day and read. Fought against it for a minute. Then looked out the window at the rain. And gave over. Put myself entirely in the keep of this rainy morning. Would I live my life over again? Make the same unforgivable mistakes? Yes, given half a chance. Yes.
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I think a little menace is fine to have in a story. For one thing, it's good for the circulation.
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The fiction Im most interested in has lines of reference to the real world.
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Every great or even every very good writer makes the world over according to his own specifications.
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I dressed and went for a walk - determined not to return until I took in what Nature had to offer.
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My life is going to change. I feel it.
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Honey, no offense, but sometimes I think I could shoot you and watch you kick.
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Then I said something. I said, Suppose, just suppose, nothing had ever happened. Suppose this was for the first time. Just suppose. It doesn't hurt to suppose. Say none of the other had ever happened. You know what I mean? Then what? I said.
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What good are insights? They only make things worse.
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I am a cigarette with a body attached to it
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A great danger, or at least a great temptation, for many writers is to become too autobiographical in their approach to their fiction. A little autobiography and a lot of imagination are best.
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Happiness. It comes on unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really, any early morning talk about it.
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I could hear my heart beating. I could hear everyone's heart. I could hear the human noise we sat there making, not one of us moving, not even when the room went dark.
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You've got to work with your mistakes until they look intended. Understand?
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I'm always learning something. Learning never ends.
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There was a time when I thought I loved my first wife more than life itself. But now I hate her guts. I do. How do you explain that? What happened to that love? What happened to it, is what I'd like to know. I wish someone could tell me.
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There is no God, and conversation is a dying art.
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Ralph also took some classes in philosophy and literature and felt himself on the brink of some kind of huge discovery about himself. But it never came.
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There is no answer. It's okay. But even if it wasn't okay, what am I supposed to do?
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